#boomer x 'soap' mactavish

[ryuzakemo128]

CW: Depressive thoughts, suicide ideation, self-esteem problems, reader has a strongwoman physique and at least 6'4 or taller, reader has a deep voice, Reader is referred to as Boomer, existentialism, nihilism, strongwoman! reader, australian! female reader.

How does one interact with a community if they get ignored?

Am I not worth talking to?

What does it mean to be alive when no one wants to even talk to you?

Am I really that intimidating?

Am I really that scary?

What have I done to scare them away from me?

Am I broken?

What have I done to deserve this?

I doubt they knew I even existed before.

That’s how it goes right?

Unless you fit the mould of what they find attractive.

I will most likely get overlooked in comparison to the other women I see them talk to.

What’s the point of even trying?

Does it even matter?

Do I even matter?

Am I born to die alone?

I wish I was soft.

I wish I was delicate.

I wish I was feminine enough.

I wish I was dead.

Parts of me wants to just die.

They tell me ‘You’ll find someone someday’ but that day will never come.

Born to suffer in isolation.

Born to perish alone in the dark.

I look in the mirror and all I see back at me is the reason people don’t or probably don’t find me attractive.

You were used to being overlooked now. Not that it didn’t hurt. Not that you didn’t hurt from it.

Depression is hard to tackle when all you have is you, yourself and the demon in the back of your skull feeding into your doubt.

You felt like a burden. A giant one at that.

You had the weight of the world on your shoulders, and it was all too much.

You had tried reaching out to people, but they always had an excuse not to hang out, not to talk. It was like you were invisible.

You were a ghost in your own life, haunting the places you once felt alive in, but now you were just a shadow of the person you used to be.

“Boomer, you’re overthinking things again.” A deep voice came from the shadows. As you sat in the bar alone, contemplating leaving to eat alone at the diner.

You paid for the drinks you had, getting your Pokémon themed backpack. Which had your essentials like your wallet, car keys, etc. Tucked deep inside it.

Childish, much like the rest of me.

Pathetic.

Gross.

Disgusting.

Who am I to think anyone would like me in that way?

I want to go home.

I want to be ten years old.

I desire to be a child once more, consequently, subsequently, accordingly.

We’re All Gonna Die.

I don’t want to have to mull over on the subject of this useless shit piling up inside my head.

We’re All Gonna Die.

Questions of pity, the ‘are you ok?’  

It would be better if they just told me to die.

Who are you?

What are you?

Price's gaze locks onto yours for a brief moment as you hover by the door, and there's something in his eyes that makes you freeze.

It's not just the recognition, but a flicker of something else.

Maybe curiosity? Pity? You can't tell.

Before you can retreat into the comforting void of inky black, Soap's arm shoots out, grabbing you by the wrist, and pulls you back to the bar.

Says, “Hey, lass,” he says with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, “you don't mind if we take your spot, do ya?”

Well you do enough talk, My little hawk, why do you cry?

We’re All Gonna Die.

“It wasn't mine to begin with.” You answered.

Ownership.

Possession.

What does it mean to own something all to yourself?

You've never truly owned anything in your life.

Everything you had was borrowed or given to you out of pity.

Even your life felt like it didn't belong to you.

The grip on your wrist is firm, but not painful. Soap's eyes search yours, as if looking for something you're not quite sure you want him to find.

“You alright?” he asks, his Scottish accent thick and comforting.

You nod, not trusting your voice to be steady.

Ghost, ever the stoic, simply nods in your direction, his mask hiding his expression, but you can feel his gaze on you.

Gaz, on the other hand, seems to be in his own world, tinkering with something in his pocket, probably a piece of gear.

“Peachy.” you answered, tired of the same question of 'Are you ok?' and the 'It's ok, everyone feels like that sometimes'.

As if feeling completely numb is normal.

As if being depressed isn't a mental illness.

You haven't been able to talk about without the comments of 'You're just sad' or 'You're just feeling down'.

They're right, you are feeling down. But you're not sad. You're just tired.

Tired of trying.

Tired of hoping.

Tired of living.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of the lies.

Tired of the façade.

You felt like a chameleon in a room full of zebras.

Their presence was like a beacon in the stormy sea of your solitude.

Did you get enough love, my little dove, why do you cry?

Was your heart not enough for them?

Why do I bother trying?

We’re All Gonna Die.

The words echo in your mind as you stand there, unsure of what to do next. The weight of your own thoughts is almost too much to bear.

You decided to leave them to the women in pastel and good looks. You weren't wanted now.

Shall we look at the moon, my little loon, why do you cry?

Price's gaze lingers for a moment longer before he nods. The three men seem to sense the tension, and an awkward silence fills the surrounding space.

It's as if they're waiting for you to leave, to go back to the shadows where they found you.

You left silently crying.

Why was the point of living now?

To serve a purpose that you had been assigned.

To be something more than the invisible monolith you perceived yourself to be.

The burning in your throat of your crying and silent heaving breaths.

As you headed to the safe house instead after seeing the diner you hoped to go to was now closed for the evening.

Soap decided in a huff of anger, frustration and concern he's had enough of this. He spotted you looking disappointed that the diner wasn't open now.

He knew that look.

That sad, defeated look.

It was the same one you had when you were told that your pet had passed away.

The same look you had when you were told you're not good enough.

The same look when you were told you're a waste of space.

The same look when you were told you're not worth the air you breathe.

Soap's voice cut through the night air, “Where are you headed, lass?”

“I don't know.” you answered.

You were lost.

Lost in the sea of darkness.

Lost in the abyss of your thoughts.

You wipe at the tears that had escaped down your cheeks, smearing your makeup.

Soap remembered seeing you in the safe house, like a giant phantom towering over others with ease.

He knew you were strong, resilient even. He also knew that everyone had their breaking point.

And it seemed like you were dangerously close to yours.

[ryuzakemo128]

We're All Gonna Die - Part 2

Pairing: Poly 141 x Boomer

Content Warnings: Boomer is the female reader, third-person perspective, philosophical questioning, self-esteem issues (Female Reader), mention of deceased father.

Note: I have been thinking a lot about stuff and things. If you want to comment your own thoughts on any posed philosophical questions, please feel free to do so.

Masterlist - Part One

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: Boomer does some more deep critical thinking about what it means to be a woman.

“I don't know what to tell you other than I don't know what to think. Part of me thinks is this all it is? To put into an amount of effort into making yourself seem likeable to someone who wouldn't give you the time of day if you appeared to be someone they don't like to see?” Boomer questioned with a furrowed brow, pacing back and forth in front of the couch.

“If they don't see me as a woman. Then what does that mean for the rest of me exactly? Does it mean that I'm not enough for them? Why do I need to change in order for someone else to like me? Why do I need to alter myself in order to gain a career?”

“When a woman has a deeper toned voice like myself, people automatically assume I'm either trans without any prior knowledge or see it as some form of excuse to say I'm not a 'real woman'. I don't know what to think half the time because it feels like I'm talking to a brick wall half the time.”

“How long have you been thinkin about this?” John raised an eyebrow at the giant pacing around the coffee table like it suddenly became a tightrope over a pool of lava. Boomer's frustration was palpable, and John knew she had a right to feel that way. They'd all faced their fair share of prejudice in the military, but she had the extra hurdle of being a giantess with a deep voice that didn't match the typical damsel in distress.

“Well, my voice particularly? Since I turned sixteen. Just shy of a year off when I enlisted in the ADF at seventeen. So at least eighteen years. Almost nineteen years. Before you ask. The jokes about me a subpar and barely worth taking interest in.” Boomer paused to pick up her cat, Whiskers. Who came in from a long nap.

“And I don't exactly talk about it because why would I? I don't want to seem like I'm 'whinin' or 'complainin'. And I don't want to exactly want people to speak about it behind my back, either. Like, if you have an issue with how I am, why can't you just tell it to my face? Why are you bein a coward? Do you understand what I mean?”

Boomer stared directly at him. Wondering if she had taken a step too far this time.

John nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “I get it, Boomer. And it's bullshit.” He spoke with a firmness that made it clear he wasn't just saying it to placate her. “You're more than enough. You're a kick-ass soldier with brains to match. You've got a heart of gold, and you're loyal to a fault. And as for the voice, it's part of what makes you unique. Fuck 'em if they can't handle it.”

The conversation wasn't brought up again. Which, for someone like Boomer? It felt more of a relief rather than a hindrance. Though, when John heard a comment about Boomer's voice being unattractive? The gloves were off.

Was this one of the many reasons why she has never been on a date before?

What does it imply?

What notion does it implicate?

For all her eccentricities, she's still a person of her own making, and to imply she is less than other females around her? It seems like the bias is leaking into her work life. Othering her in some form of justification to keep her from dating completely? Is her genetics any less worthy than their own?

What does it mean to be a woman when the people around her seem to perpetuate a biased notion of what a woman should be?

Simon decided to plan a date with Boomer. He had taken it on himself to take Boomer out on a date.

If no one else wanted her? Then tough shit.

He's claiming his prize no matter what someone thinks of how she appears to be on the outside.

He hatched a plan with the rest of Task Force 141.

A plan began to take shape. To take form.

As Boomer boiled eggs as what she loved to call a 'light snack'. Which was more like a meal. Her appetite remained incredibly large because of the combination of her training needs and her high metabolism.

Now she stands inside the kitchen. Completely unaware of the plan forming under her nose.

[ryuzakemo128]

Sneak peek for: We're All Gonna Die - Part 3

Content Warnings: Angst, Self-reflection, Philosophy, self-esteem issues, verbal and physical abuse, misogyny and internalised misogyny, possible other dark topics. Slight smut implication.

Notes: No summary for this one. The official part will have it though. Pack some tissues. You're going to need them.

Note 2: Cried writing this. So I'm 100% recommending tissues now.

Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Boomer continued to think about it more, mulling it over inside her head. Questions popping up through her mind.

Does it really mean she couldn't be a woman if she wasn't gentle or delicate?

Does this imply she'll never be seen as a woman or feminine enough?

Does this indicate she'll never date anyone because she's too rough around the edges?

What does it mean?

What does that mean for this woman?

Does it mean she’s never enough?

Does it mean she will never be viewed as desirable, like the soft-spoken women in frilly dresses drenched in pastel colours?

Is she better off dead?

“Women are supposed to be in the home. Women are supposed to be soft, gentle. You will never be any of those things. Stop trying. It looks abhorrent on you fucking freak.” she remembered someone telling her.

Is it her broad shoulders?

Is it the way she walks with purpose, not a dainty stride but a confident march?

Is it her physique? How it's been honed by years of rigorous training, her muscles not hidden under layers of soft flesh but starkly defined?

Was her height to blame? Her towering height of at least six foot four or possibly being taller than that.

Was it her appetite? The way she could scarf down a whole meal with a side of more meat than anyone else at the table?

'I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror and no see what others point out to be disgusting. Am I not a real woman?' she pondered.

'I want to wear a dress and feel pretty, is that so much to ask?'

'But I want rarely matters and I hate it.'

'Perfect for the job. But not much else. Now am I?'

A bodycon dress with kimono sleeves made from velvet with silk lining. A deep V-neckline, knee-length. Deep Burgundy colour, almost black in the right lighting.

She chose to wear black lace up chunky heeled boots.

Accessories tied with the dress. Which are the: Megalodon shark tooth soft leather choker, negative space nail art with burgundy polish, a deep burgundy clutch.

The make-up look she went with crimson red lipstick with black lip liner, a light blush, a nude brown eyeshadow with a cat eyeliner, false eyelashes to make her eyelashes appear bolder in look.

The sides of her hair shaved to a light buzz cut, creating a stark contrast with the long, wavy locks that fell over her shoulders. Tied into a loose side braid.

The sides of her head were shaved, not to the skin but to a more textured, soft, fluffy shortness. The length of her hair remained the same, but now it cascaded over one side like a waterfall.

Simon had never seen her look so elegant and yet so fierce at the same time. The dress hugged her curves in a way that made his heart race, and he couldn't help but think of all the things he'd like to do to her while she wore it.